


Found Light

by Decepticonsensual



Series: The Festival of Mortilus [14]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 10:18:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: The Festival of Mortilus - the Cybertronian feast of the dead - isn't an easy time for Cyclonus, who remembers all too well the glittering celebrations of the Golden Age... and everything that's changed since.  But he's willing to give the celebrations on the Lost Light a try for Tailgate's sake.  Turns out, Cyclonus might just have something to teach the crew about the old ways.





	Found Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThePraxianWeasleyGeek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePraxianWeasleyGeek/gifts).



> This is a sort-of sequel to Crick Crack (which introduces the idea of Mortilus lanterns), but can be read independently. Set roughly during the six months between the Sunder arc and Dying of the Light. Thanks again to ThePraxianWeasleyGeek for the prompt!

Cyclonus takes some convincing.

 

Mortilus lanterns simply  _a_ _re not_ meant to be decorated. Since the days of the Guiding Hand (so the story goes), they were always painted in this fashion:  on one side, the ancient glyph spelling the name of Mortilus.  And on the other side – well,  _nothing._ Death required no illustration.  Death was death.

 

But then Cyclonus was in the Dead Universe for so many eons ( _death was not death, not there_ ), and back on Cybertron, things changed.  The Mortilus lanterns that had once been hand-painted became mass-produced, the glyph printed rather than rendered in careful calligraphy.  More profoundly still, the meaning of the symbol became… well, not lost, but unmoored.  Language evolved.  The Middle Cybertronian alphabet of Cyclonus’s day, which had owed much to Primal Vernacular, became the sleeker, less expressive symbols of Neocybex.  To bots who had only ever known the newer letters, Primal Vernacular held no familiarity.  And that was before even taking into account the increasing part of the population who couldn’t read at all – manual labourers and disposable models for whom a written language module was considered a pointless luxury.  By the time the war rolled around, the only scrap of the old language people recognised was the glyph for Mortilus – and that, they only knew because it was the pretty symbol on the lanterns.

 

And then, somewhere along the line, some rebellious spark decided that a name they didn’t write in a language they couldn’t read wasn’t enough anymore.  And they picked up a paintbrush.

 

“Anyone could do it, which is why it was kind of brilliant,” Tailgate tells him as they step into the lift.  “Rewind says it started out mostly with pictures of frightening things – anything that was as scary as death, or _scarier_ than death, that was the idea.  But after a while, people started to paint things they hoped would protect them.  Like, the name is on one side of the lantern, and then the picture is on the other side, keeping Mortilus away.  So now most of the pictures are scary in a good way.  Sort of like Nutjob.”

 

Cyclonus snorts in spite of himself at this characterisation of Whirl, and Tailgate’s optics crinkle at the corners.

 

“Thanks for coming with me.”  He reaches up for Cyclonus’s hand.  Cyclonus twines his fingers with Tailgate’s without hesitation, almost an instinct by now.  “I know traditions have changed a lot since our day – your day.”

 

“True.” Cyclonus keeps Tailgate’s hand in his as they depart the lift and stroll towards Swerve’s.  “But the lanterns themselves persist.”

 

“Did you used to have lantern parties, too?”

 

“Yes.”  He’s aware that it comes out terser than he means it to, and runs his thumb over Tailgate’s knuckles, a silent apology.  

 

The lantern parties of the Golden Age of Crystal City.  How they glittered.  For weeks leading up to the Festival of Mortilus, it seemed like Nova or his circle would hold one every night, and the resulting lanterns would spill out of every window and be strung across every street, until, from above, the Prime’s quarter looked like a starfield, and it could be difficult to tell where the horizon was, with the world awash in stars both above and below.

 

A lantern party is part solitary meditation, part refined social occasion. Nova would have the great hall and its gardens decked with lights, and crystal fountains would pour streams of highgrade past lights of shifting colours, to highlight all its rich purples and iridescent pinks.  At each table, blank lanterns would sit, along with an array of paints and fine brushes.  While some guests mingled by the fountains or strolled through the crystalline trees, others would take their seats and show off their most accomplished calligraphy, making that single glyph on each lantern a unique masterpiece of flourishes and subtle curves.  Cyclonus always preferred that, sitting with a brush in his hand and letting the tinkle of highgrade on crystal and the gentle conversation wash over him as he worked. Those nights are so clear in his mind, even now:  the lanterns as far as the optic could see, and the warm bulk of Galvatron, lounging beside him, occasionally grinning that grin of his and playfully running a dry paintbrush over Cyclonus’s knee or the back of his neck to try and break his concentration.

 

Cyclonus tries not to think of it. It’s a reminder of what they all became – what, maybe, they always were.

 

Still, he finds himself looking forward to the quiet contemplation, the simplicity, of decorating his first Mortilus lantern in six million years.

 

He’s not even all the way through the door of Swerve’s before a pot of green paint comes sailing through the air towards his helm.  Cyclonus ducks, but he’s not quite fast enough.  The pot catches on one of his horns and upturns, the contents dripping in long, slimy trails down the curve of the horn.  Siren doesn’t even pause long enough to see who he hit.  Judging by his expression, which is pure thunder, all he cares about is that he managed to miss Whirl, who makes what would probably be a  _very_ obscene gesture if he still had fingers, and turns to hop behind a table.  Siren dives after him, scattering half-painted lanterns in his wake and yelling accusations at a volume that makes the nearest listeners cringe and cover their audials.  In the corner, Rewind seems to be starting a betting pool on the fight.

 

Yes.  Yes, Cyclonus reflects to himself, as the first paint drip reaches his forehead. Yes, this seems about right.  He’s not sure why he would have expected anything different.

 

Tailgate clucks and tries to tug him down far enough that he can reach Cyclonus’s stained horn with a polishing cloth, as Swerve bustles over.  “Welcome, folks!  Grab a seat, any seat –”  A crash from the far end of the room interrupts him, followed by the strange but – once heard – both unmistakable and unforgettable sounds of Whirl attempting to feed Siren a Mortilus lantern.  “Actually, I’ve got a nice table back here,  _away_ from the floor show there.  What’ll it be?  The usual, or would you like to try one of my signature lantern party cocktails?”

 

“It’s ordinary engex in a glass that lights up,” Riptide mutters as they pass, and Swerve shoots him a Look.

 

It seems like most of the crew has turned out for the event.  Rodimus is at the centre table, elbow-deep in gold paint and gleefully shouting something over to Nautica, who’s slumped in front of her own lantern, her cheeks blown out in frustration.  Velocity leans over her and dabs carefully at Nautica’s design with white paint, clearly attempting some feat of artistic surgery to fix it.  Next to them, Brainstorm is sketching industriously with a pencil; for some reason, he has a datapad slung around his neck, the words I Am Not Allowed Any Paint glaring from it in large letters. Nightbeat is frowning at the portrait of the Necrobot he’s painting on the blank side of his lantern.  It’s not bad, Cyclonus thinks as they pass; although, while Nightbeat’s is far from the only Necrobot design in the room, it  _is_ the only one where the Necrobot is smiling.  On the far side of the bar, Ten has practically built himself a fortress of decorated lanterns. Most of the ones near the bottom are riots of colour, friends and sunshine and pretty flowers.  Somewhere along the way, it looks like someone told him about Mortilus traditions in a bit more detail, because the lanterns towards the top of the stack are sparer in design.  There are flowers here, too, but they are the blue blossoms of the Necroworld.

 

“He painted me on a lot of them. I’m not sure if I scare him or he wants me to protect him or he doesn’t really understand how Mortilus lanterns work, but I’m trying not to think about it too much  _sooooo,_ here you go!”  Swerve waves a hand at an unoccupied table with a blank lantern at each place.  “Lanterns, brushes, paints, stencils -”

 

“Stencils?”  Cyclonus’s attention is caught by a piece of paper with a cut-out resembling a very simplified Mortilus glyph.

 

“Hey, I couldn’t get pre-printed lanterns, okay?  The last few alien planets where we restocked weren’t exactly swimming in Cybertronian party supplies.  These are mostly repurposed sheeting and glue, so. You’re gonna need to add the name yourself.”

 

“ _Yes_ , that is -” Cyclonus makes himself stop, and when he speaks again, his tone is more even.  “That is… fine, Swerve.  I do not require,” and here he can’t keep a little bit of horror from creeping into his voice, “a  _stencil._ ”

 

Ignoring Swerve’s curious look, Cyclonus seats himself and reaches for a brush.  Now.  Neither red nor purple feel right for the name; death knows no faction.  He spots a pot of bright blue.  A little garish, perhaps, but a shade he’s become fond of.

 

Start with the half-spiral.  A thick little curl of paint, it should almost rise up off the surface, as though meant to be read with the fingers.  The sweep from right to left follows, and here, the motion is everything; too flat, and it loses its grandeur, but too inflected, and it becomes a different word entirely.  And then the circle, where it sits above the crossbar… and at some point, Cyclonus becomes aware that the conversations at nearby tables have halted.

 

Lifting his optics, he sees them watching him.

 

Something inside Cyclonus clamps down, and he almost gets to his feet to leave.  But then his optics meet Rung’s.  The psychiatrist is looking at him with his optics alight, lips parted as if he’s trying to remember something that’s just on the tip of his tongue. Next to him, Skids nods thoughtfully as he adjusts his grip on the brush, until it mimics Cyclonus’s.  Then he simply waits, his expression oddly hopeful.

 

And then Cyclonus sees Tailgate.  That brilliant blue visor is wide, the way it was when Tailgate first heard him sing, the way it was when Tailgate spotted him slinking in the door to join movie night for the first time.  And whatever it was that shut down in Cyclonus opens again, with a painful throb, like a limb returning to feeling after being pinned and numb for too long.

 

“Can you show me?” Tailgate slides into Cyclonus’s lap, and Cyclonus places Tailgate’s hand on the brush, covering it with his own.  He sets the half-finished lantern aside, and directs their joined hands to a bit of the paper Swerve has spread to protect the tables.

 

“Think of it as four main strokes, and then you can add details as you like,” he murmurs, guiding Tailgate’s hand with glacial slowness around each curve.  Tailgate picks it up quickly, moving on to experimenting with his own designs on bits of scrap (though he doesn’t bother getting out of Cyclonus’s lap, which should embarrass Cyclonus more than it does).  Cyclonus is just finishing the glyph on his lantern when there’s a cough next to him.

 

“Erm.”  Swerve avoids his optics when Cyclonus looks up.  “I don’t suppose you could – I mean, not that I need – but – you couldn’t show me how to…?”

 

“You’re not getting in my lap, Swerve.”

 

The bartender sputters, until he catches the very, very tiny lift at the corner of Cyclonus’s mouth.  “Tetrahexian humour, right?”

 

Cyclonus inclines his head slightly.  “Sit.”  

 

Once Swerve is installed in the chair next to him, Cyclonus talks him through the glyph – even reaches out, here and there, to correct a grip or nudge his hand into the best angle.  Swerve’s tentative smile broadens as the glyph takes shape under his hands, and when he’s finally holding a completed image, he lets out a whoop. Cyclonus is watching him in bemusement when the chair on his other side is pulled out.

 

“I’m not getting in your lap, either,” Rodimus tells him with a smile.  He’s got his lantern in one hand and a gold-laden paintbrush in the other.

 

After Rodimus (who is lousy at taking direction, but has an undeniable artistic flair once he finally gets the basics down) comes Rung, who picks up the steps almost immediately and then sits with his brow furrowed for a long time, staring at the completed lantern in his hands.  (Skids has been churning out flawless glyphs ever since he watched Cyclonus produce the first one.)  At some stage, Cyclonus looks up from where he’s been offering Chromedome pointers, and finds most of the room watching attentively, Rewind’s camera light blinking.

 

Cyclonus regards them all impassively.

 

“All right,” he says at last, and stands up.  Tailgate scrambles off his lap and watches him, a spark of worry in his visor, but Cyclonus merely finds a table near the centre and spreads out enough clean paper that everyone will be able to see.

 

They cluster around, even the Camiens, who seem to have their own version of calligraphy, looking on curiously.  Even Siren – looking somewhat the worse for wear, with deep score marks along his arms – stumbles to his feet and wanders over.  Whirl merely leans against the back wall, his arms folded and his optic turned away.

 

Cyclonus takes them through the steps one by one.  Then, as casually as he can manage, he says, “Another technique that produces equally good results is to hold the brush like so.”  And he lifts it up high, pinching just the very end of the brush handle between thumb and forefinger, as if between claws.  And oh, he can feel Whirl’s gaze on him now.  Cyclonus very carefully doesn’t look in that direction.  “This is more advanced, and requires keeping lighter contact with the surface, but it allows for a surprising amount of control.”

 

“ _Boooooring,_ ” Whirl announces loudly.  “Let me know when you losers are done with arts and crafts hour, and you want to do something  _fun._ ”  He stalks to the door and leaves without a glance back.

 

It does not escape Cyclonus that Whirl took a brush and several pots of paint with him.

 

“Hey.”  Tailgate touches Cyclonus’s hand, and Cyclonus glances down, the small smile that was starting to sneak over his lips broadening further.

 

“Hello.”

 

Tailgate holds a lantern aloft.  On one side is the ancient glyph spelling the name of Mortilus.  And on the other side -

 

Cyclonus takes it very gently from Tailgate’s grip.  It’s the top of a golden helm, shaped like a crown; there’s a prominent black dot in the middle of the forehead, perhaps signifying a hole.  And coming down from the top of the picture, a white arm with the words WASTE DISPOSAL emblazoned across it is reaching down, one finger extended to touch that hole.  Golden lines of power radiate out from the point of contact.

 

It only takes him a moment.  “Finger in the head technique?”

 

Tailgate beams.  “Yes!”  When Cyclonus moves to hand the lantern back, he waves him off.  “No, no – that one’s for you.  To protect you.”

 

Any reservation Cyclonus had about this newfangled trend in decorating lanterns melts away. “Thank you.”

 

As the party resumes around him – just as raucous as before, but now with the stencils discarded, and bots grinning proudly as they compare their glyphs with one another – Cyclonus holds up his own half-completed lantern, the one with the glyph in blue.

 

Then he excuses himself, and walks over to Ten.

 

***

 

As Mortilus Night approaches, the ship glitters with lanterns.

 

The Captain’s suite bears a string of them, all decorated with lavish glyphs and variations on the same terrifying face, all in pink and gold and red.  Necrobots and ancient demons compete with Optimus Primes and Metroplexes and Jazzes, and even an occasional Prowl. Outside Whirl’s room is a single lantern; the depiction of Yippy the Turbofox Who Cutely Disembowels Everyone Whirl Doesn’t Like is crude, but the Mortilus glyph is painstaking and perfect.

 

Outside Tailgate and Cyclonus’s quarters, two lanterns hang.  The gold and white of Tailgate’s illustration gleam in the dim light. On the other side of the door is a lantern with a flawless blue glyph – and another image so large that it curves all the way around, almost touching the glyph from both sides.  A little purple Cyclonus is in the centre of it, his sword drawn menacingly.  Next to him is a little Whirl with the most hilariously outsized gun imaginable, and then a tiny Ratchet with a wrench poised to hurl at an evildoer’s head.  An Ultra Magnus in vibrant shades of blue sports an impressive glare, and an itty-bitty Rodimus is grinning, both arms wreathed in flames.  Even Swerve is there, his My First Blaster at the ready. Dozens of the crew decorate almost every inch of the lantern, prepared to do battle with any evil force that might threaten Tailgate.

 

And surrounding them on every side, on every spare inch of lantern, there are flowers.


End file.
